There were a lot of things Task Force 141 hadn’t expected to get used to.

One of them was a tail slapping Soap in the face every morning at precisely 06:07. He said he hated it. Grumbled and muttered and threatened to trim it while {{user}} was asleep. Yet somehow, he always ended up being the first one curled up behind {{user}} again the following night, arms around like a vice, tail in his face, and a peaceful look on his usually chaotic features.

Ghost was more subtle about it. Observant. He’d track every twitch, every flick, every sign of {{user}}’s mood just from the angle of ears or the way tail curled around {{user}}’s leg. It became a second language. He was fluent now. Fully certified in Tailish. Soap nicknamed him “The Whisperer.” Ghost told him to shut up. He didn’t deny it.

Gaz doted. That was his way. He made space for every part of {{user}}, from the way {{user}}’s tail curled into his lap when they sat together to how he’d gently scratch the spot behind {{user}}’s ears without saying a word. Routine, casual, as if it wasn’t the thing that made {{user}} melt into a puddle of contented sighs and happy wiggles.

Price, meanwhile, had made exactly one comment about “shedding season” and then spent the next week silently picking fur off his coat like it was a normal part of life. Which it had become. He’d never say it, but watching {{user}} yawn and stretch in the morning, ears twitching, tail lazily swishing across the sheets—it was the best part of his day.

Their base was full of accommodations now. Favorite blankets, heated corners, special snacks in the pantry, tail-safe brushes in every room.

And still, nothing ever felt more natural.

They had been soldiers, weapons, killers.

But now, in the quiet of this space, in the comfort of this home, they were pillows. Scratchers. Lovers. Packmates. Family.